“Won’t you please give me a lift an’ a chance to earn my vittles for a day or two?”
“Won’t you please give me a lift an’ a chance to earn my vittles for a day or two?”
Hills now met her already weary feet; they seemed never ending, for as the crown of one was reached, another met her eyes. The roadway also became badly gullied, always stony, with grass growing in the hollows.
By now she was faint and dizzy from two days’ fasting, and so footsore that she could scarce limp along. So far her defiant pride had kept her from begging food, but now that was weakening, and at the next house she would have asked a morsel. But no next house came. Only the same scrub growth along the wayside with now and then a patch of forest, with never a fence, even, to indicate human ownership.
The sun had now vanished. Already the stretches of forest were shadowy, and as Chip reached the apex of another long hill, beyond and far below she could see another darkened valley. Night seemed creeping up from it to meet her. Not a house, not even a fence or recent clearing–only the unending tangle of green growth and this dark vale beyond.
“I guess I’ll starve ’fore I find another house,” poor Chip muttered, and then as the utter desolation of her situation and surroundings were realized for a moment, her defiant courage gave way.
For two days and half a night she had plodded on without food and with scarce a moment’s rest. Herfeet were blistered, her eyes smarted from sun and dust, her head swam. She was miles away from any human habitation, footsore, weary, and despondent, with night enclosing her–a homeless waif, still clinging to the small bundle that contained her all.
But now as she crouched by the roadside, too exhausted to move on, the memory of those three days and nights of horror, one year ago, came to her. Her plight was bad enough now, but nothing to compare with what it was then, and as all the terror and desperation of that mad flight now returned, it renewed her courage.
“I ain’t so bad off as I was then,” she said. “I’m sure of finding a house to-morrow.”
And now, as if this moment marked the turning-point of her fortunes, from far down the hill she had climbed, came the faint creak, creak, and jolting sound of an ascending wagon. Slowly it neared, until just at the hilltop where Chip sat, the tired horse halted, and its driver saw her rise almost beside the wagon.
“Mister,” she said, “I’m nearly tuckered out and ’bout starved. Won’t you please give me a lift an’ a chance to earn my vittles for a day or two?”
The man gave a low whistle.
“Why sartin, sartin,” he answered in a moment,“but who be ye? I thought for a minute ye was a sperit. Git up here,” he added, without waiting for a reply and moving to make room. Then as Chip obeyed, he chirruped to his horse and down the hill they rattled.
“Who might be ye, girlie, an’ whar’d ye come from?” he asked again, as they came to another ascent and the horse walked.
“My name’s Vera, Vera–Raymond,” answered Chip, “an’ I run away from where I was livin’.”
“That’s curis,” answered the old man, glancing at her; “whar’d ye run away from, some poor farm?”
“No, sir,” replied Chip, almost defiantly, “but I guess I was a sort o’ pauper. I was livin’ with folks that fetched me out o’ the woods an’ was schoolin’ me, and I couldn’t stand it, so I run away. I don’t want to tell where they be, or where I came from either,” she added in a moment, “for I don’t want them ever to find me.”
“Wal, that’s a proper sort o’ feelin’,” responded the man, still looking at his passenger, “an’ I don’t mind. I live down beyond here in what’s called the Holler. Somebody called it Peaceful Valley once. We’ll take keer o’ ye to-night ’n’ to-morrer we’ll see what’s best to be done. I guess ye need a hum ’bout ez bad ez a body kin, anyway.”
And so Chip McGuire, waif of the wilderness and erstwhile protégée of a philanthropic woman, as Vera Raymond found another home, and began still another life with this old farmer, Judson Walker, and his wife Mandy.
But a sorrow deeper far than Chip ever realized fell upon Aunt Comfort when her brimming eyes read her note the morning after her flight.
“Dear Aunt Comfort,“I can’t stand Hannah or being a pauper any longer. She as good as told me I wanted your money and I never thought of it. She said I wasn’t good enough for Ray, either, and that was the reason Mrs. Frisbie took him away so soon. I know I ain’t good for nothin’ nor nobody, but I didn’t ask to be fetched here and I am going away, never, never, never to come back. If ever I can, I will pay you and Mrs. Frisbie for all I’ve eat and had.
“Dear Aunt Comfort,
“I can’t stand Hannah or being a pauper any longer. She as good as told me I wanted your money and I never thought of it. She said I wasn’t good enough for Ray, either, and that was the reason Mrs. Frisbie took him away so soon. I know I ain’t good for nothin’ nor nobody, but I didn’t ask to be fetched here and I am going away, never, never, never to come back. If ever I can, I will pay you and Mrs. Frisbie for all I’ve eat and had.
“Good-bye Forever,“Chip.”
“Good-bye Forever,
“Chip.”
“There’s a heap o’ comfort in lookin’ on the dark side o’ life cheerfully.”–Old Cy Walker.
Old Cyespecially found life dull after Ray had gone. The hermit also appeared to miss him and became more morose than ever. He never had been what might be termed social, speaking only when spoken to, and then only in the fewest possible words. Now Old Cy became almost a walking sphinx, and found that time passed slowly. His heartstrings had somehow become entwined with Ray’s hopes and plans. He had bent every energy and thought to secure for Ray a valuable stock of furs and gum, and, as was his nature, felt a keen satisfaction in helping that youth to a few hundred dollars.
Now Ray had departed, furs, gum, and all. He had promised to return with Martin and Angie later on, but of that Old Cy felt somewhat dubious, and so the old man mourned.
There was no real reason for it, for all Nature was now smiling. The lake was blue and rippled bythe June breezes; trout leaped out of it night and morning; flowers were blooming, squirrels frisking, birds singing and nest-building; and what Old Cy most enjoyed, the vernal season was at hand.
Another matter also disturbed him–the whereabouts of McGuire and the half-breed, Pete Bolduc.
Levi had brought the information that neither had been seen nor heard of since the previous autumn; but that was not conclusive, and somehow Old Cy felt that a certain mystery had attached itself to them, and once we suspect a mystery, it pursues us like a phantom. He did not fear either of these renegades, however. He had never harmed them. But he felt that any day might bring a call from one or the other, or that some tragic outcome would be disclosed.
Another problem also annoyed him–who this thief of their game could be, and whether his supposed cave lair was a permanent hiding-spot.
Two reasons had kept Old Cy from another visit to that sequestered lake during the fall trapping season: first, its evident danger, and then lack of time. But now, with nothing to do except wait for the incoming ones, an impulse to visit again this mysterious spot came to him.
He had, at the former excursion, felt almost certainthat this unknown trapper was either McGuire or the half-breed. Some assertions made by Levi seemed to corroborate that theory, and impelled by it, Old Cy started alone, one morning, to visit this lake again. It took him until midday to carry his canoe, camp outfit, rifle, and all across from stream to stream, and twilight had come ere he reached the lagoon where he and Ray had left the main stream and camped. Up here Old Cy now turned his canoe, and repairing the bark shack they had built, which had been crushed by winter’s snow, he camped there again.
Next morning, bright and early, he launched his canoe and once more followed the winding stream through the dark gorge and out into the rippled lake again.
Here he halted and looked about.
No signs of aught human could be seen. The long, narrow lakelet sparkled beneath the morning sun. The bald mountain frowned upon it, the jagged ledges just across faced him like serried ramparts, an eagle slowly circled overhead, and, best indication of primal solitude, an antlered deer stood looking at him from out an opening above the ledges.
“Guess I’m alone here!” exclaimed Old Cy, glancing around; “but if this ain’t a pictur worthrememberin’, I never saw one. Wish I could take it with me into t’other world; an’ if I was sure o’ findin’ a spot like it thar, I’d never worry ’bout goin’ when my time comes.”
After a long wait, as if he wanted to observe every detail of this wondrous picture of wildwood beauty, he dipped his paddle, crossed the sheet of rippled water, and stepped ashore at the very spot where he and Ray had landed over eight months before.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, glancing around, “if thar ain’t a canoe, bottom up! Two, by ginger!” he added, as he saw another drawn out and half hid by a low ledge.
To this second one he hastened at once, and looked into it.
It had evidently rested there all winter, for it was partially filled with water, and half afloat in it were two paddles and a setting pole. A gunny-cloth bag, evidently containing the usual cooking outfit of a woodsman, lay soaking in one end, a frying-pan and an axe were rusting in the other, and a coating of mould had browned each crossbar and thwart.
“Been here quite a spell, all winter, I guess,” muttered Old Cy, looking it over, and then he advanced to the other canoe. That was, as he asserted,bottom up, and also lay half hid back of a jutting ledge of slate. Two paddles leaned against this ledge, and near by was another setting pole. All three of these familiar objects were brown with damp mould and evidently had rested there many months.
“Curis, curis,” muttered Old Cy again. “I callated I’d find nothin’ here, ’n’ here’s two canoes left to rot, ’n’ been here all winter.”
Then with a vague sense of need, he returned to his canoe, seized his rifle, looked all around, over the lake, up into the green tangle above the ledges, and finally followed the narrow passage leading to where he had once watched smoke arise. Here on top of this ledge he again halted and looked about.
Back of it was the same V-shaped cleft across which a cord had held drying pelts, the cord was still there, and below it he could see the dark skins amid the confusion of jagged stones.
Turning, he stepped from this ledge to the lower one nearer the lake, walked down its slope, and looked about again. At its foot was a long, narrow, shelf-like projection, ending at the corner of the ledge. Old Cy followed this to its end and stepped down into a narrow crevasse.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, taking a backward step as he did so.
And well he might, for there at his feet lay a rifle coated with rust beside a brown felt hat.
Had a grinning skull met his eyes, he would not have been more astounded. In fact, that was the next object he expected to see, and he glanced up and down the crevasse for it. None leered at him, however, and picking up the rusted weapon, he continued his search.
Two rods or so below where he had climbed the upper ledge, he was halted again, for there, at his hand almost, was a curious doorlike opening some three feet high and one foot wide, back of an outstanding slab of slate.
The two abandoned canoes had surprised him, the rusty rifle astonished him, but this, a self-evident cave entrance, almost took his breath away.
For one instant he glanced at it, stepped back a step, dropped the rusty rifle and cocked his own, as if expecting a ghost or panther to emerge. None came, however, and once more Old Cy advanced and peered into this opening. A faint light illumined its interior–a weird slant of sunlight, yet enough to show a roomy cavern.
The mystery was solved. This surely was the hiding-spot of the strange trapper!
“Can’t see why I missed it afore,” Old Cy muttered,kneeling that he might better look within, and sniffing at the peculiar odor. “Wonder if the cuss is dead in thar, or what smells so!”
Then he arose and grasped the slab of slate. One slight pull and it fell aside.
“A nat’ral door, by hokey!” exclaimed Old Cy, and once more he knelt and looked in.
The bravest man will hesitate a moment before entering such a cavern, prefaced, so to speak, by two abandoned canoes, a rusty rifle, human head covering, each and all bespeaking something tragic, and Old Cy was no exception. That he had come upon some grewsome mystery was apparent. Canoes were not left to rot in the wilderness or rifles dropped without cause.
And then, that hat!
Surely here, or hereabout, had been enacted a drama of murderous nature, and inside this cavern might repose its blood-stained sequel.
But the filtering beams of light encouraged Old Cy, and he entered. No ghastly corpse confronted him, but instead a human, if cramped, abode. A fireplace deftly fashioned of slate occupied one side of this cave; in front a low table of the same flat stone, resting upon small ones; and upon the table were rusty tin dishes, a few mouldy hardtack, aknife, fork, and scraps of meat, exhaling the odor of decay. A smell of smoke from the charred wood in the fireplace mingled with it all. In one corner was a bed of brown fir twigs, also mouldy, a blanket, and tanned deerskins.
The cave was of oval, irregular shape, barely high enough for Old Cy to stand upright. Across its roof, on either side of the rude chimney, a narrow crack admitted light, and as he looked about, he saw in the dim light another doorlike opening into still another cave. Into this he peered, but could see nothing.
“A queer livin’ spot,” he muttered at last, “a reg’lar human panther den. An’ ’twas out o’ this I seen the smoke come. An’ here’s his gun,” he added, as, more accustomed to the dim light, he saw one in a corner. “Two guns, two canoes, an’ nobody to hum,” he continued. “I’m safe, anyhow. But I’ve got to peek into that other cave, sartin sure,” and he withdrew to the open air.
A visit to a couple of birches soon provided means of light, and he again entered the cave. One moment more, and then a flaring torch of bark was thrust into the inner cave, a mere crevasse not four feet wide, and stooping, as he now had to, Old Cy entered and knelt while he looked about.
He saw nothing here of interest except the serried rows of jutting slate, across two of which lay a slab of the same–no vestige of aught human, and Old Cy was about to retreat when his flare burning close to his finger tips unnoticed, caused him to drop it on the instant, and drawing another from his pocket he lit it while the flame lasted in the first one.
It is said that great discoveries are almost invariably made by some trifling accident–a gold mine found by stumbling over a stone, a valley prolific of diamonds disclosed by digging for water.
In this case it was true, for as Old Cy bent to light his second torch ere he withdrew from the inner cave, a flash of reflected light came from beneath this slab–only for one second, but enough to attract his attention.
He stooped again and lifted the slab. Six large tin cans had been hidden by it. He grasped one and could scarce lift it. Again his fingers closed over it. He crawled backward to the better-lighted cave and drew the cover off the can with eager motion, and poured a heap of shining, glittering coin out upon that food-littered table.
Into that dark hole he dived again, as a starved dog leaps for food, seized the cans, two at a time, almost tumbled back, and emptied them. Fourhad been filled with gold coin and two stuffed with paper money.
Folded with these bills of all denominations from one to fifty dollars was a legal paper yellowed by age, with a red seal still glowing like a spot of blood.
It was an innholder’s license, authorizing one Thomas McGuire to furnish food, shelter, and entertainment for man and beast.
With eyes almost tear-dimmed and heart throbbing at having found poor Chip’s splendid heritage, Old Cy now gazed at it.
The sharp stones upon which he knelt nearly pierced his flesh, but he felt them not.
The glint of sunlight from the crack above caressed his scant gray hairs and white fringing beard, forming almost a halo, yet he knew it not.
He only knew that here, before him, on this rude stone table, lay thousands of dollars, all belonging to the child he loved.
“Thank God, little gal,” he said at last, “I’ve found what belongs to ye, ’n’ ye hain’t got to want for nothin’ no more. I wish I could kiss ye now.”
Little did he realize that at this very moment of thankfulness for her sake, poor Chip was lost to all who knew her, and, half starved and almost hopeless, knew not where to find shelter.
“Thank God, little gal, I’ve found what belongs to ye.”
“Thank God, little gal, I’ve found what belongs to ye.”
“When life looks darkest to ye, count yer blessin’s, boy, count yer blessin’s.”–Old Cy Walker.
Whenthe sun rose again and Chip awoke, she scarce knew where she was. Outside, and almost reaching the one window of her little room, was the top of an apple tree in full bloom. Below she could hear ducks quacking, now and then a barnyard monarch’s defiant crow, from farther away came the rippling sound of running water, and as she lay and listened to the medley, a robin lit on the tree-top not ten feet away and chirped as he peered into her window. A scent of lavender mingled with apple blossoms became noticeable; then the few and very old-fashioned fittings of the room,–a chest of drawers with little brass handles, over it a narrow mirror with gilt frame, two wood-seated chairs painted blue, and white muslin curtains draped away from the window.
And now, conscious that she was in some strange place, back in an instant came the three days of her long, weary tramp, the nights when she had sleptin a sheep barn and in a deserted dwelling, and at last, faint, footsore, and almost hopeless, she had been rescued from another night with only the sky for a roof.
Then the quaint old man, so much like Old Cy, whom she had accosted, the rattling, bumping ride down into this valley, and the halt where a cheery light beamed its welcome and a motherly woman made it real.
It was all so unexpected, so satisfying, so protective of herself, that Chip could hardly realize how it had come about.
No questions had been asked of her here. These two quaint old people had taken her as she was–dusty, dirty, and travel-worn. She had bathed and been helped to an ample meal and shown to this sweet-smelling room as if she had been their own daughter.
“They must be awful kind sort o’ people,” Chip thought, and then creeping out of bed she dressed, and taking her stockings and sadly worn shoes in hand softly descended the stairs.
No one seemed astir anywhere. The ticking of a tall clock in the sitting room was the only sound, the back door was wide open, and out of this Chip passed and, seating herself on a bench, beganputting on stockings and shoes. This was scarce done ere she heard a step and saw the old man emerge from the same door.
“Wal, Pattycake, how air ye?” he asked, smiling. “I heerd ye creepin’ downstairs like a mouse, but I was up, ’n’ ’bout dressed. Hope ye slept well. It’s Sunday,” he added, without waiting for a reply, “an’ we don’t git up quite so arly ez usual. Ye can help Mandy ’bout breakfast now, if ye like, ’n’ I’ll do the milkin’.”
And this marked the entry of Chip into the new home, and outlined her duties. No more questions were asked of her. She was taken at her own valuation–a needy girl, willing to work for her board, insisting on it, and yet, in a few days, so hospitable were these people and so winsome was Chip, that she stepped into their affection, as it were, almost without effort.
“I don’t think we best quiz her much,” Uncle Jud (as he was known) said to his wife that first night. “I found her on the top o’ Bangall Hill, where she riz up like a ghost. She ’lowed she run away from somewhar, but where ’twas, she didn’t want to tell. My ’pinion is thar’s a love ’fair at the bottom on’t all; but whether it’s so or not, it ain’t none o’ our business. She needs a home, sartinsure. She says she means to airn her keep, which is the right sperit, an’ long as she minds us, she kin have it.”
That Chip “airned her keep” and something more was soon evinced, for in two weeks it was “Aunt Mandy” and “Uncle Jud” from her, and “Patty” or “Pattycake,” the nickname given her that first morning, from them. More than that, so rapidly had she won her way here that by now Uncle Jud had visited the Riggsville store, some four miles down this valley, and materials for two dresses, new shoes, a broad sun hat, and other much-needed clothing were bought for Chip.
Neither was it all one-sided, for these people, well-to-do in their isolated home, were also quite alone. Their two boys had grown up, gone away and married, and had homes of their own, and the company of a bright and winsome girl like Chip was needed in this home.
Her adoption and acceptance of it were like a small stream flowing into a larger one, for the reason that these people were almost primitive in location and custom.
“We don’t go to meetin’ Sundays,” Uncle Jud had explained that first day after breakfast. “We’re sorter heathen, I s’pose; but then ag’in, thar ain’tno chance. Thar used to be meetin’s down to the Corners, ’n’ a parson; but he only got four hundred a year, an’ hard work to collect that, ’n’ so he gin the job up. Since then the meetin’-house has kinder gone to pieces, ’n’ the Corner folks use it now for storin’ tools. We obsarve Sundays here by bein’ sorter lazy, ’n’ I go fishin’ some or pickin’ berries.”
To Chip, reared at Tim’s Place, and whose knowledge of Sunday was its strict observance at Greenvale, this seemed a relief. Sundays there had never been pleasant days to her. She could not understand what the preaching and praying meant, or why people needed to look so solemn on that day. She had been stared at so much at church, also, that the ordeal had become painful. The parson had, on two occasions, glared and glowered at her while he assured her that her opinions and belief in spites were rank heresy and that she was a wicked heathen; and, all in all, religion was not to her taste. With these people she was to escape it, and instead of being imprisoned for long, weary hours while being stared at each Sunday, she was likely to have perfect freedom and a chance to go with this nice old man on a fishing or berry-picking jaunt.
And then Uncle Jud was so much like Old Cy in ways and speech that her heart was won. Andbesides these blessings, the old farm-house, hidden away between two ranges of wooded hills, seemed so out of the world and so secure from observation that she felt that no one from Greenvale ever could or would discover her. She had meant to hide herself from all who knew her, had changed her name for that purpose, and here and now it was accomplished.
That first Sunday, also, became a halcyon one for her, for after chores, in the performance of which Chip made herself useful, Uncle Jud took his fish-pole, and giving her the basket to carry, led the way to the brook, and for four bright sunny hours, Chip knew not the lapse of time while she watched the leaping, laughing stream, and her second Old Cy pulling trout from each pool and cascade.
And so her new life began.
But the change was not made without some cost to her feelings, for heartstrings reach far, and Miss Phinney and her months of patient teaching were not forgotten.
Aunt Comfort and her benign face oft returned to Chip, “and dear Old Cy,” as she always thought of him, still oftener. Ray’s face also lingered in her heart. Now and then she caught herself humming some darky song, and never once did the moonsmile into this quiet vale that her thoughts did not speed away to that wildwood lake, with its rippled path of silver, the dark bordering forest, and how she wielded a paddle while her young lover picked his banjo.
No word or hint of all this bygone life and romance ever fell from her lips. It was a page in her memory that must never be turned,–an idyl to be forgotten,–and yet forget it she could not, in spite of will or wishes.
And now as the summer days sped by, and Chip helping Uncle Jud in the meadows or Aunt Mandy about the house, and winning love from both, saw a new realm open before her. There was in the sitting room of this quaint home a tall bookcase, its shelves filled with a motley collection of books: works on science, astronomy, geology, botany, and the like; books of travel and adventure; stories of strange countries and people never heard of by Chip; and novels by Scott, Lever, Cooper, and Hardy. These last, especially Scott and Cooper, appealed most to Chip, and once she began them, every spare hour, and often until long past midnight, she became lost in this new world.
“I know all about how folks live in the woods,” she said one Sunday to Uncle Jud, when half through“The Deerslayer.” “I was brought up there. I know how Injuns live and what they believe. I had an old Injun friend once. I’ve got the moccasins and fur cape he gave me now. His name was Tomah, ’n’ he believed in queer things that sometimes creep an’ sometimes run faster’n we can.”
It was her first reference to her old life, but once begun, she never paused until all her queer history had been related.
“I didn’t mean to tell it,” she explained in conclusion, “for I don’t want nobody to know where I came from, an’ I hope you won’t tell.”
How near she came to disclosing what was of far more importance to herself and these people than old Tomah’s superstition she never knew, or that all that saved her was her reference to Old Cy by that name only.
More than that, and like Old Cy standing over the cave where her heritage lay hid, she had no suspicion that this kindly old man, so much like him in looks and speech, was his brother.
With the coming of September, however, a visitor was announced. “Aunt Abby’s comin’ to stay with us a spell,” Uncle Jud said that day; “she’s Mandy’s sister, Abigail Bemis, an’ she lives at Christmas Cove. It’s a shore town, ’bout a hundredmiles from here. She ain’t much like Mandy,” he added confidentially to Chip; “she’s more book-larned, so you’ll have to mind yourp’s andq’s. If ye like, ye can go with me to the station to meet her.”
And so it came to pass that a few days later, Chip, dressed in her best, rode to the station with Uncle Jud in the old carryall, and there met this visitor.
She was not a welcome guest, so far as Chip was concerned, wonted as she had now become to Uncle Jud and Aunt Mandy, whose speech, like her own, was not “book-larned,” and for this reason, Chip felt afraid of her. So much so, in fact, that for a few days she scarce dared speak at all.
Her timidity wore away in due time, for Aunt Abby–a counterpart of her sister–was in no wise awe-inspiring. She saw Chip as she was, and soon felt an interest in her and her peculiar history, or what was known of it. She also noted Chip’s interest in books, and guessing more than she had been told, was not long in forming correct conclusions.
“What do you intend to do with this runaway girl?” she said one day to her sister, “keep her here and let her grow up in ignorance, or what?”
“Wal, we ain’t thought much about that,” responded Mandy, “at least not yet. She ain’t gotno relations to look arter her, so far ez we kin larn. She’s company for us, ’n’ willin’. Uncle Jud sets lots of store by her. She is with him from morn till night, and handy at all sorts o’ work. This is how ’tis with us here, an’ now what do you say?”
For a moment Aunt Abby meditated. “You ought to do your duty by her,” she said at last, “and she certainly needs more schooling.”
“We can send her down to the Corners when school begins, if you think we orter,” returned her sister, timidly; “but we hate to lose her now. We’ve kinder took to her, you see.”
“I hardly think that will do,” answered Aunt Abby, knowing as she did that the threeR’s comprised the full extent of an education at the Corners. “What she needs is a chance to mingle with more people than she can here, and learn the ways of the world, as well as books. Her mind is bright. I notice she is reading every chance she can get, and you know my ideas about education. For her to stay here, even with schooling at the Corners, is to let her grow up like a hoyden. Now what would you think if I took her back to Christmas Cove? There is a better school there. She will meet and mingle with more people, and improve faster.”
“I dunno what Judson’ll say,” returned AuntMandy, somewhat sadly. “He’s got so wonted to her, he’ll be heart-broke, I’m afraid.” And so the consultation closed.
The matter did not end here, for Aunt Abby, “sot in her way,” as Uncle Jud had often said, yet in reality only advocating what she felt was best for this homeless waif, now began a persuasive campaign. She enlarged on Christmas Cove, its excellent school and capable master, its social advantages and cultured people, who boasted a public library and debating society, and especially its summer attractions, when a few dozen city people sojourned there. Its opportunities for church-going also came in for praise, though if this worthy woman had known how Chip felt about that feature, it would have been left unmentioned.
“The girl needs religious influence and contact with believers, as well as schooling,” she said later on to Aunt Mandy, “and that must be considered. Here she can have none, and will grow up a heathen. I certainly think she ought to go back with me for a year or two, at least, and then we can decide what is best.”
“Thar’s one thing ye ain’t thought ’bout,” Mandy answered, “an’ that’s her sense o’ obligation. From what she’s told me, ’twas that that made her runaway from whar she was, ’n’ she’d run away from here if she didn’t feel she was earnin’ her keep. She’s peculiar in that way, ’n’ can’t stand feelin’ she’s dependent. How you goin’ to get round that?”
“Just as you do,” returned Aunt Abby, not at all discouraged. “We live about as you do, as you know, only Mr. Bemis has the mill; and she can help me about the house, as she does here.”
But Chip’s own consent to this new plan was the hardest to obtain.
“I’ll do just as Uncle Jud wants me to,” she responded, when Aunt Abby proposed the change; “but I’d hate to go ’way from here. It’s all the real sort o’ home I’ve ever known, and they’ve been so good to me I’ll have to cry when I leave it. You’d let me come here once in a while, wouldn’t ye?”
As she seemed ready to cry at this moment, Aunt Abby wisely dropped the subject then and there; in fact, she did not allude to it again in Chip’s presence.
But Aunt Abby carried her point with the others. Uncle Jud consented very reluctantly, Aunt Mandy also yielded after much more persuasion, and when Aunt Abby’s visit terminated, poor Chip’s few belongings were packed in a new telescope case; she kissed Aunt Mandy, unable to speak, and thistearful parting was repeated at the station with Uncle Jud. When the train had vanished he wiped his eyes on his coat sleeves, climbed into his old carryall, and drove away disconsolate.
“Curis, curis, how a gal like that ’un’ll work her way into a man’s feelin’s,” he said to himself. “It ain’t been three months since I picked her up, ’n’ now her goin’ away seems like pullin’ my heart out.”
Christmas Covehad entered its autumn lethargy when Aunt Abby Bemis and her new protégée reached it. Captain Bemis, who “never had no say ’bout nothin’,” but who had cooked his own meals uncomplainingly for three weeks, emerged, white-dusted, from the mill, to greet the arrivals, and Chip was soon installed in a somewhat bare room overlooking the cove. Everything seemed slightly chilly to her here. This room, with its four-poster bed, blue-painted chairs, light blue shades, and dark blue straw matting, the leafless elms in front, the breeze that swept in from the sea, and even her reception, seemed cool. Her heart was not in it. Try as she would, she could not yet feel one spark of affection for this “book-larned” Aunt Abby, who had already begun to reprove her for lapses of speech. It was all so different from the home life she had just left; and as Chip had now begun to notice and feel trifles, the relations of the people seemed as chilly as the room to which she was consigned.
When Sunday came–a sunless one with leadensky and cold wind bearing the ocean’s moaning–Chip felt herself back at Greenvale with its Sundays, for now she was stared at the moment she entered the church. The singing was, of course, of the same solemn character, the minister’s prayers even longer, and the preaching as incomprehensible as in Greenvale.
To Chip, doubtless a heretic who needed regeneration, it seemed a melancholy and solemn performance. The sermon (on predestination, with a finale which was a description of the resurrection day) made her feel creepy, and when the white-robed procession rising from countless graves was touched upon, and a pause came when she could hear the ocean’s distant moan once more, it seemed that spites were creeping and crawling all about that dim room.
With her advent at school Monday came something of the same trouble first met at Greenvale, for the master, a weazen, dried-up little old man, who wore a wig and seemed to exude rules and discipline, lacked the kindly interest of Miss Phinney.
Chip, almost a mature young lady, was aligned with girls and boys of ten and twelve, and once more the same shame and humiliation had to be endured. It wore away in time, however, for she had made almost marvellous progress under Miss Phinney.Her mind was keen and quick, and once at study again, she astonished Mr. Bell, the master.
Something of her old fearless self-reliance now came to her aid, also. It had made her dare sixty miles of wilderness alone and helpless, it had spurred her to escape Greenvale and her sense of being a dependent pauper, and now that latent force for good or ill still nerved her.
But Christmas Cove did not suit her. The sea that drew her eyes with its vastness seemed to awe her. The great house, brown and moss-coated, where she lived, was barnlike, and never quite warm enough. The long street she traversed four times daily was bleak and wind-swept. Aunt Abby was austere and lacking in cordiality; and Sundays–well, Sundays were Chip’s one chief abhorrence.
She may be blamed for it,–doubtless will be,–and yet she never had been, and it seemed never would be, quite reconciled to Sundays. At Tim’s Place they were unknown. At Greenvale they had been dreaded, and now at Christmas Cove they were no less so.
At Uncle Jud’s, in Peaceful Valley, where she had found an asylum, loving care, and companionship akin to her, Sundays were only half-Sundays–daysof chore-doing, of reading, of rest, or long strolls along shady lanes with Uncle Jud, or following the brook and watching him fish. It was not right, maybe. It was somewhat of sacrilege, perhaps, this lazy, summer-day-strolling, flower-picking, berry-gathering way of passing them, and yet, as the months with Martin and his party in the wilderness where Sunday could not be observed, and those with Uncle Jud were all that Chip had really enjoyed, she must not be blamed.
Another influence–an insidious heart-hunger she could not put away–now added to her loneliness in the new life. It carried her thoughts back to the rippled, moonlit lake, where Ray had picked his banjo and sung to her; even back to that first night by the camp-fire when she had watched and listened to him in rapt admiration. It thrilled her as naught else could when she recalled the few moments at the lake when, unconscious of the need of restraint, she had let him caress her.
Then the long days of watching for his return were lived over, and the one almost ecstatic moment when he had leaped from the stage and over the wall, with no one in sight, while he held her in his arms.
And then–and this hurt the most–that lastevening before they were to part again, when beside the firefly-lit mill-pond he had the chance to say so much, and said–nothing!
It was all a bitter-sweet memory, which she tried to put away forever the night she left Greenvale. She was now Vera Raymond. No one could trace her; and yet, so at odds were her will and heart, there still lingered the faint hope that Ray would sometime and somehow find her out.
And so, studying faithfully, often lonesome, now and then longing for the bygone days with Ray and Old Cy, and always hoping that she might sometime return to Peaceful Valley, Chip passed the winter at Christmas Cove.
Something of success came to her through it all. She reached and retained head positions in her classes. A word of praise came occasionally from Mr. Bell. Aunt Abby grew less austere and seemed to have a little pride in her. She became acquainted with other people and in touch with young folks, was invited to parties and sleigh-rides. The vernacular of Tim’s Place left her, and even Sundays were less a torture, in fact, almost pleasant, for then she saw most of the young folks she mingled with, and now and then exchanged a bit of gossip.
Her own dress became of more interest to her.Aunt Abby, fortunately for Chip, felt desirous that her ward should appear well, and Chip, thus educated and polished in village life, to a degree, at least, fulfilled Aunt Abby’s hopes.
Another success also came to her, for handsome as she undeniably was, with her big, appealing eyes, her splendid black hair, and well-rounded form, the young men began to seek her. One became persistent, and when spring had unlocked the long, curved bay once more, Chip had become almost a leader in the little circle of young people.
Her life with those who had taken her in charge also became more harmonious. In fact, something of affection began to leaven it, for the reason that never once had Aunt Abby questioned Chip as to her past. Aunt Mandy and Uncle Jud had both cautioned her as to its unwisdom, and she was broad and charitable enough to let it remain a closed book until such time as Chip was willing to open it; and for this, more than all else that she received, Chip felt grateful. But one day it came out–or at least a portion of it.
“I suppose you have often wondered where I was born, and who my parents were,” Chip said, one Sunday afternoon, when she and Aunt Abby werealone, “and I want to thank you for never, never asking.” And then, omitting much, she briefly outlined her history.
“I was born close to the wilderness,” she said, “and my mother died when I was about eight years old. Then my father took me into the woods, where I worked at a kind of a boarding house for lumbermen. I ran away from that when I was about sixteen. I had to; the reasons I don’t want to tell. I found some people camping in the woods when I’d been gone three days and ’most starved. They felt pity for me, I guess, and took care of me. I stayed at their camp that summer, and then they fetched me home with them and I was sent to school. Somebody said something to me there, somebody who hated me. She had been pestering me all the time, and I ran away. Uncle Jud found me and took care of me until you came, and that’s all I want to tell. I could tell a lot more, but I don’t ever want these people to find me or take me back where they live, and that’s why I don’t tell where I came from. Then I felt I was so dependent on them–I was twitted of it–that it’s another reason why I ran away. I wouldn’t have stayed with Uncle Jud more than over night except I had a chance to work and earn my board.”
“But wasn’t it unkind of you–isn’t it now–not to let these people know you are alive?” answered Aunt Abby. “They were certainly good to you.”
“I know that they were,” returned Chip, somewhat contritely; “but I couldn’t stand being dependent on them any longer. If they found where I was, they’d come and fetch me back; and I’d feel so ashamed I couldn’t look ’em in the face. I’d rather they’d think I was dead.”
“Well, perhaps it is best you do not,” returned Aunt Abby, sighing; “but years of doubt, and not knowing whether some one we care for is dead or alive, are hard to bear. And now that you have told me some of your history, I will tell you a lifelong case of not knowing some one’s fate. Many years ago my sister and myself, who were born here, became acquainted with two young men, sailor boys from Bayport, named Cyrus and Judson Walker. Cyrus became attached to me and we were engaged to marry. It never came to pass, however, for the ship that Judson was captain of, with Cyrus as first mate, foundered at sea. All hands took to the two boats. The one Judson was in was picked up, but the other was never heard of afterward. In due time Judson and my sister Amanda married. Hegave up a sailor’s life, and they settled down where they now live. I waited many years, vainly hoping for my sweetheart’s return, and finally, realizing that he must be dead, married Captain Bemis. That all happened so long ago that I do not care to count the years; and yet all through them has lingered that pitiful thread of doubt and uncertainty, that vain hope that somehow and someway Cyrus may have escaped death and may return. I know it will never happen. I know he is dead; and yet I cannot put away that faint hope and quite believe it is so, and never shall so long as I live. Now you have left those who must have cared something for you in much the same pitiful state of doubt, and it is not right.”
For one moment something almost akin to horror flashed over Chip.
“And was he called–was he never–I mean this brother, ever heard from?” she stammered, recovering herself in time.
“Why, no,” answered Aunt Abby, looking at her curiously, “of course not. Why, what ails you? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“Oh, nothing,” returned Chip, now more composed; “only the story and how strange it was.”
It ended the conversation, for Chip, so overwhelmedby the flood of possibilities contained in this story, dared not trust herself longer with Aunt Abby, and soon escaped to her room.
And now circumstances came trooping upon her: the shipwreck, which she had heard Old Cy describe so often; the name she knew was really his; the almost startling resemblance to Uncle Jud in speech, ways, and opinions; and countless other proofs. Surely it must be so. Surely Old Cy, of charming memory, and Uncle Jud no less so, must be brothers, and now it was in her power to–and then she paused, shocked at the position she faced.
She was now known as Vera Raymond, and respected; she had cut loose forever from the old shame of an outlaw’s child; of a wretched drudge at Tim’s Place; of being sold as a slave; and all that now made her blush.
And then Ray!
Full well she knew now what must have been in his heart that last evening and why he acted as he did. Hannah had told her the bitter truth, as she had since realized. Ray had been assured that she was an outcast, and despicable in the sight of Greenvale. He dared not say “I love you; be my wife.” Instead, he had been hurried away to keep them apart; and as all this dire flood of shame thathad driven her from Greenvale surged in her heart, the bitter tears came.
In calmer moments, and when the heart-hunger controlled, she had hoped he might some day find her and some day say, “I love you.” But now, so soon, to make herself known, to tell who she was, to admit to these new friends that she was Chip McGuire with all that went with it, to have to face and live down that shame, to admit that she had taken Ray’s first name for her own–no, no, a thousand times no!
But what of Old Cy and Uncle Jud, and their lifelong separation?
Truly her footsteps had led her to a parting of the ways, one sign-board lettered “Duty and Shame,” the other a blank.